We’re barely through the door when we were approached by a girl Tommy Guilt has been smitten with since we first saw her three weeks ago. Every time we come in, he tells her about his life, his school, his job, even his defunct death metal band that never played a show or even finished writing a song. Ironically, tonight was the first time she seemed excited to see him. Wednesday. It’s slow. When he told her he’d eaten ScornFish with Dr. Filth, she cried, "Ew, gross!" and went backstage. She's easily replaced by a stripper I think is named, ‘Candy,' who I’ve seen once or twice before. "How are you guys tonight?" she asks, beginning to twist and gyrate between my knees before my ass has even hit the chair.
"Better than you are, I'm sure," Tom says.
Fuck.
"Fuck," I say, shaking my head. "Ignore them.” I can’t even look at her. “Please, just ignore them."
Dr. Filth’s glasses magnify his eyes and flash them red and green in the spinning spotlights. Doc’s jaw is slack and his dredlocks hang limply over his face. I don't think he knows where he is.
"What did you say?" she asks.
Tom starts laughing but gets out, "I don't know!" I'm afraid this will be a repeat of the Meaty Boyz incident. The difference, of course, is that Meaty Boyz Polish Sausage didn’t have bouncers twice the size of me, ready to kick ass at the first sign of trouble. People are starting to shoot angry looks at us. The stereotypical patron of a strip bar is a filthy degenerate pervert, desperately craving up close and personal the bare flesh of a woman he could never talk to in everyday life. For the most part, the stereotype is true. Few people make light of the situation.
The ScornFish consumed Tommy Guilt over an hour ago. Doc and I waited for our food and sent Tommy off to find a table. It was dinner time, and a lot of people were there avoiding their families. Tommy had been fine when he left us, as fine as he can be. We found him ten minutes later, clinging to the 3-foot partition between the smoking and non-smoking sections. The partition started to melt, and he could no longer hold it up with his mind. When Dr. Filth opened his chicken sandwich, Tommy laughed until tears streamed from his eyes. People look strangely at someone laughing about a chicken sandwich.
Dr. Filth is scribbling madly in a notebook he found under the seat in my car. Candy stands by him for a moment, hand on her hip, pushing down the string of her bikini strap, but he is unresponsive. The music is turned up way too loud, but I can hear Tommy Guilt laughing.
“Who comes to a strip club to do their homework?” she asks, sounding irritated. She sits on my lap. She can’t be all that happy about working for five people in the bar. Big money making night. Candy flexes and releases her ass, pulling me toward the back room for a private dance. This girl is about perfect in form and figure with a smile to die for, and the biggest, greenest eyes I’ve ever seen. My willpower is rapidly fading under the strain of her exquisite pectorals. I know she’s got a job to do, but at times like this I don’t care. "What the fuck are they on?" the girl asks. Her name might be Cindy, or Candie with an ‘ie.’ I saw her at another club dancing as “Spice.”
“Don’t worry, they’re superheros.” I say, sipping soda. The girls take it all off, so there can’t be alcohol. That’s in the topless place at the other side of the plaza so frat boys, bikers, and optometrists can easily stagger between the two. Last week, Candy told us she’s into comic books and heavy metal. Her ghoulish boyfriend dresses all in black leather, like me. She’s as faithful as she can be while stark naked, rubbing her crotch in another guy's face.
"You’re just in time to see me dance,” Candy whispers moist in my ear, and then points at Tommy and Dr. Filth, shouting, “Ebony! These guys have cash!"
Candy is gone like smoke, and the most hideous creature to ever disgrace a dance floor saunters sexily over and begins to twist between Tom's legs. Her cellulite makes her legs look pockmarked and diseased, or it may be she is pockmarked and diseased. Her leopard bikini barely conceals the rolls and bulges that form and disappear in her sides during her serpentine dance. Tommy is powerless to resist, and is barely able to give her a dollar. She moves on to Filth, who, in a rather amazing show of control, has already produced a dollar from his pocket. I dash for the bar for another Mountain Dew before she can reach me.
When I return, Tom is staring intently at the multicolored disco ball that spins above the stage. His mouth hangs open in amazement. Occasionally, he nods and moves his lips like he's talking to it.
Filth turns to Tommy. "Want to play some pool?"
Tom snaps his head around, eyebrow raised nearly to his hairline. He studies Filth intently, and nods in slow motion. They leave. Like a good babysitter, I watch them in the mirrors to make sure they safely make it back to the table. It's just before ten, and the girls are still dancing for three songs–one clothed, one topless, and one nude. I don’t waste money visiting the stage before the second song, but with Doc and Tommy occupied, I can afford a little distance between me and them, and I can start spending some hard-earned money.
The song ends, and the few people clap "Ah-right, guys," comes the bouncer’s voice booming over the PA. "Let's get a big round of applause for Brenda leaving the stage right now. Make sure to ask for her by name when you go back for a private dance. Coming up right now, guys, is a sexy little number, whose going to give you everything she's got. Let's hear it now for Candy!" I think he says Candy. It might have been 'Sandy,' or even 'Randy,' but I'm almost certain it started with a 'C.'
Candy rolls in front of me and begins to repeatedly open and close her legs. She hooks my head with her ankle and drags me up close. I draw a dollar from my pocket, and lay it on the stage. She knocks it in my lap and crawls down to retrieve it with her lips. I groan when I see Tommy and Dr. Filth coming, and Candy comes up, dollar dangling from the corner of her grin. “Are you saying I’m fat?” she asks as Doc and Tommy sit down next to me.
I don’t want to know what he’s ranting about, but it’s got Dr. Filth laughing, so it can’t be good.
Tommy's about to have his mouth shut. I take out another dollar.
The song stops.
The silence is filled with Tom's voice, way to loud, "...shit, if any of the girls needed a tit-job, I'd be like, 'sure thing.'" He gestured like he was handing out cash, and his wandering eyes find us. "I'd be like, 'Candy, you know, you're looking a little small, go get yourself a tit-job...’"
The speakers boom "Sad But True," from Metallica. If the song has started a second earlier, Candy might have pretended she didn't hear him. She could have smiled, and nodded, and gone on about her business. Her name might be 'Clarice.'
The song was not fast enough to drown Tommy out though.
Candie stares at him for a moment, too shocked that he could say such a thing to respond immediately. It was true, she was lacking in the breast department. Any normal person would know better than insult the chick showing you her tits. Tom Guilt is a different animal entirely. Tommy has very little time between when an idea forms and when it shoots, unchecked, out of his mouth.
I sip my soda. "This happens every time." He's lucky he gets slapped as rarely as he does. There's a club in Syracuse that he's not allowed in any more because one of the girls there attacked him. If he said to me what he told her, I would have punched him too.
"Are you saying I have small tits?" Candy asks, genuinely offended.
"Well, you're not exactly double Ds," Tom protests, looking between me and Filth for approval. Two nights ago, he pointed out the disproportionate size of a vertically challenged body-builder, who fronts a tough-guy Grindcore band. We barely got him out of the bar with his teeth. Two weeks ago, he was stomped by his roommate after announcing his girlfriend had given Tommy crabs. That had been true, he showed me several of the dead bugs. Tommy Guilt usually deserves what he gets.
"So a woman is unattractive unless she has giant breasts?" Camby, maybe? No, that's ridiculous. She said she used to strip under the name, “Sapphire,” because of her eyes. I would think that in a profession whose entire intent is to objectify women, a girl would learn to overlook such comments from obvious sexist pigs who don’t know enough to sugar-coat their feelings. Unfortunately for Tom Guilt, if you don’t have much money, the girls hang on to their dignity and a tiny scrap of self esteem.
Dr. Filth has his face in his hand, shaking his head. I suppose it’s up to me.
"Well, it certainly makes them a lot more pleasant to look at." Tommy isn’t used to dealing with women he needs to be nice to.
"Please," Filth moans. "Please don't do this to me!"
"You're a virgin, aren't you," Candy asks kneeling on the stage in front of him.
"Oh!" Filth cries, nearly falling out of his seat.
"Tom, shut up," I say. It’s like shooting a tank with a pistol, but I have to try.
"I'm getting pussy seven days a week," he responds, ignoring me. She hurt his pride, and is bound to hurt some more if this argument continued.
"Then what are you doing here, virgin?" she asks.
"Now, goddammit, Candy," Tommy says, flustered.
"No, God damn you," she snaps, stomping off stage
"She's just," Tom starts. I wave my hand to stop him, but it is too late. He flicks his tongue out in that weird, lizard-like way he always does. "I think she's just not into guys."
The bartender is on the phone. Is she calling the cops? The last thing I need is to be arrested because these two idiots are making a disturbance. I was a good friend! I was being responsible!
"Dude...," Dr. Filth says, fear in his eyes. “I’m seeing fucking demons up there." He's eaten so much popcorn, I expect they will start charging before they let me have another bowl.
“Demons fucking?” Tommy asks and bursts out laughing.
"It's not funny," Filth says. His voice is quaking. "They're in the smoke."
"We have to get out of here before they see us," Tom says, his eyes fixed on the swirling clouds.
Filth puts his head down on his arm and says, "This was a mistake! Why did we come here like this?"
This is enough to snap Tom out of his stupor. His eyes widen as he looks at Filth. "He says he doesn't like it!" Tom cries, clapping Filth on the back.
Without looking up, Filth mumbles "Don't touch me," with each clap. “Don’t touch me. Don’t touch me.”
"Oh yeah," Tom says, withdrawing his hand.
There is a movement to my right, and to my horror, Ebony is on me, shoving her quivering, leopard-skinned ass in my face. The terror of the moment would break the sober mind. I don't know how Tommy and Doc survived. My hand fumbles for my pocket, clumsily separating a dollar from the rest of my wad. She is pulling out the straps of her thong and letting them snap on her ass, which never stops jiggling. Fear has dulled my reflexes, and it takes me three tries to penetrate. With a polite smile, I say, "Thank you," and send her on her way.
I lean over to Filth. "We have to go."
He stares at me, looking almost hurt. "What?"
"We have to be there at eleven if we're going to save the world."
His mind races, trying to remember where we have to go, coming up with nothing. I can see the fear beginning to creep in, him wanting to be glad I’m here to save him, but not able to understand the concept.
"Let's go, we only have half an hour to get there," I tell him. “Besides, this place is crawling with demons.”
Dr. Filth gasps and jumps to his feet.
"Put your coat on slowly," I order. "Don't let anyone know we're on to them." Luckily, I don't need to explain anything to Tommy, who is fearfully mimicking our actions. I feel like I’m leading a pair of toddlers down the aisle and out the door. The bouncers don't take their eyes off us. In the parking lot, Tom decides he's too messed up to drive and begins to dig for his keys. "Where the fuck are they?" he mumbles, digging through all of his pockets. I take them out of my pocket and unlock the car. Tom continues to search even after he's inside, mumbling about demons as I drive through town.
"Shut up!" Filth is mumbling repeatedly, curled into a ball on the floor in the back seat.
The drone of Tom’s voice fades and his eyes focus on the street lights.
A car races up behind me. Before I can even make out the body shape, I’m convinced it’s John Law. Before this ordeal is over, I’ll find myself in a jail cell. I haven't done anything illegal, but Tom’s car is in sorry shape and has death metal stickers all over it. I'm sure some pig would be glad to fuck with me.
The headlights dim when the car nearly slams into my bumper. It is a cop. My audible cry gets the attention of both Tom and Dr. Filth. They sit frozen, watching him pass like a shark. He looks, and our eyes meet for a second. I smile and look back at the road. He continues to advance, passing me and speeding off into the distance, frustrated with unsuitable prey. If only he knew.
“Dude,” Dr. Filth says. “You’re barely going ten miles an hour!”
“Pussy,” says Tommy Guilt.
“You're seeing things,” I say, and turn down a side street into the parking lot of an abandoned furniture store. “I want to give that pig some time to forget about us.” About ten feet in front of us, a kid our age is leaning against a bus stop sign. He watches nervously. Without thinking about it, I stare back.
My roommates will kill me if I bring these two home. Logic dictates I should talk them out of the car here in the street and part ways with vague promises of help and mozzarella sticks. I could pick them up in the morning still wandering around the parking lot, seeking a way over the guardrails. “Where are you two going to stay?" I ask. "Did you even think of that before you showed up at my house?”
“I figured out my superhero name,” Tommy says.
“You don’t have a power,” I say.
“I can go back in time,” Tommy says.
“You can’t go back in time,” Dr. Filth says, raising his voice.
“I just did,” Tommy says. “I’m going to be ‘Reset Button.’”
Dr. Filth shakes his head. “Nobody goes back in time anymore.” He fumbles with his words, quivering on his lip. “It’s passe.”
“I just went back thirty years while you were talking,” Tommy says, eyes on the kid at the bus stop. "That’s how long it took you to spit that shit out." The kid is watching back. The air between them is uncomfortable. “You’re lucky I was here to save you from the Apocalypse that would have happened ten minutes ago.”
“You have no idea how to time travel,” Dr. Filth says, growing angrier.
“You have no idea how old I really am,” Tommy says.
“Will you two shut up!” I shout, grabbing the steering wheel. “What am I supposed to do with you two? You’re not staying at my house. If you don’t cut your own heads off in a paper cutter, you’ll certainly drown in a toilet.”
"You're going to cut our heads off?" Tommy gasps.
"Why don't you drive us to my house, stay there, and I'll drive you to work tomorrow," Filth says. It wouldn’t be a bad plan if the Doc wasn’t completely unreliable in a sober state. I’m sure he’s already forgotten the offer by now.
Tom’s window is open, and his head hangs half way out. “Awowano,” he mumbles. The kid in front of us tries not to look, but he can’t help himself. "Holy shit!" Tom cries suddenly, clutching the door panel until his knuckles turn white.
"What?" I gasp.
"The fucking car fell over!" Tom says, gripping white-knuckled onto the door handle.
The kid walks to the next bus stop.
Filth says, "I wish I could be in a band like that.”
“What are you talking about?” I ask.
“Slayer, man. I wish I could be in a band like Slayer.” Dr. Filth turns on the radio. The tape deck hasn't worked in weeks. Slayer does not get played on the radio here. I start the car and drive out of the parking lot.
"Oh shit, dude," Tom spouts. "Could you imagine that? I mean, fucking, when I listen to them, I just want to smash heads!"
"I wish I could write songs that are so violent they make people want to commit murder," Filth says. He pauses, staring at his lap. "We should get a prostitute."
"And kill her?" I ask.
"No, fuck her!" the Doc protests.
Before he can finish, Tom says, "That would be neat!"
"What?" Filth asks. "Killing her?"
"Ye-ah!" Tom says, doubling over as he says it. "That would be neat. We could like, make hamburger out of her titties!"
"Stop it!" Filth orders. "I can just picture you in your little Chef Boyardee hat, standing over a meat grinder, shoving some girl into it!"
Tommy snorts. “Dude, that’s an album cover from Morbid Angel.”
“Morbid Angel doesn’t have a cover like that,” I say, turning down a side street.
"Tommy just turned into a lizard,” Dr. Filth says as another cop passes us. Thank god they are superheroes.
END
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